


Hope Is a Thing With Feathers

by imafriendlydalek, orbingarrow



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Birdbrains vs. the Tracksuit Draculas, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Marvel 616/MCU Crossover, Roommates, Samtember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:35:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4835552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imafriendlydalek/pseuds/imafriendlydalek, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbingarrow/pseuds/orbingarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's move to Clint's building in Bed-Stuy is two-fold, really. Decent rent, yes, but also, the rest of the team is a day away from an extended mission out of country and Natasha doesn’t trust anyone else to keep an eye on her perpetual disaster of a best friend while Clint recovers from (yet another) serious injury.</p><p>In which Sam and Clint bond over pizza and the dangers of being regular squishy humans on a team of super-soldiers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope Is a Thing With Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> We wanted to write a story about these two birdy guys, and we both agree that Fraction Hawkeye is the best Hawkeye, so this happened.

Sam looks up at the building. It’s a building like any in the area, a long brick building with a flat roof, storefronts in the ground floor and a fire escape connecting the windows on the street side. A building like any in the area, except for the ones that have already been replaced with newer, modern buildings of concrete and glass. But gentrification hasn’t touched this one yet.

“This is it?” he asks.

“Yep,” Steve says. “Come on, Clint said he’d be waiting inside.”

“A fifth-floor walk-up,” Sam says appreciatively. “They really don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

“Gotta love Brooklyn, huh?” Steve says with a smile.

They make it up three flights of stairs when a voice greets them from one floor up.

“El Capitan!” A blond head appears over the banister, a set of crutches next to him.

“Hey Barton. This is Sam. Sam, this is your new landlord, Clint.”

“The great thing about owning real estate is, I get to be a _lord_ ,” Clint grins.

“I’m sure that really brings the ladies running,” Sam says with a smirk. “Thanks, by the way...”

Sam trails off when he actually gets a look at Clint. Steve had warned him it was bad, but bad really doesn’t begin to describe it. Guy looks like he’d been mauled by a bear then picked over by some vultures. 

“Shouldn’t you be in a bed or something?”

This move to Bed-Stuy is two-fold, really. Decent rent, yes, but also, the rest of the team is a day away from an extended mission out of country and Natasha doesn’t trust anyone else to keep an eye on her perpetual disaster of a best friend. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t like to follow orders,” Clint replies, running a hand over his hair.

That elicits a laugh from Steve. “Don’t I know it. I’d say that’s why you end up in medical so often, but you keep ducking out of there too.”

“Yeah, well, we all gotta have quirks. Keeps things interesting.” Clint gathers his crutches and arranges himself, then starts toward the apartment on the left. “Come on, I’ll show you your new digs.”

Sam tugs his duffel bag up a little more tightly over his shoulder to ascend the last few steps. Steve has a bag of Sam’s things, too, and there’s a couch and a bed waiting downstairs in the back of a pick-up but that’s it. The young mother who had taken over Sam’s lease had ended up with almost all his furniture. It was easier giving it to her than trying to sell it all on Craigslist or ship it up from DC, and for the first time in a long time Sam has enough money in his bank account to buy new once he’s settled in his new apartment.

Still, it means in the short term, he’s living light.

The apartment itself is exactly as Steve had described. Roughed-up hardwood floors, big windows, a living room that opens to the kitchen. And a one-eyed dog. Okay, that wasn’t on the lease.

“Who’s this?” Sam asks. And well, on the lease or not, Sam is a big old sucker for a dog and drops to his knees to get a better look at the pup, though the dog seems a lot less interested now and scuttles over to Clint. He flops down onto the floor with a groan, his head resting on his paw. “He’s yours?”

“Yeah, sorta. We’re more like just buddies. But give ‘im some food and you’ve got a pal for life.”

The way that dog is staring up at Clint with his big brown eye, a look that’s somehow ennui and adoration all at once, it’s pretty clear there’s more to that story. Sam makes a mental note to ask again some other time. “Sounds about right - looks like there’s some Lab in there. I had one, growing up. Good dog.”

The dog’s ear perk up a little at that; his tail thumps against the floor twice.

The corner of Clint’s mouth quirks in a smile. “Yeah he is.”

There’s definitely more to that story, then.

“Well,” Steve’s voice calls Sam out of his thoughts, “I’m gonna go grab that couch. You wanna give me a hand, Sam, or do I have to shove it around the corners up the stairs all by myself?”

“Hey, any scuff marks in the stairwell are coming out of your security deposit,” Clint teases.

“Any more scuff marks and there won’t be any walls left,” Steve calls over his shoulder as he starts down the stairs.

“Which is why they should be avoided!” Clint shouts after him.

“I’d better go keep an eye on him,” Sam says, gesturing after Steve.

They manage to get the bed and couch up without any trouble - Steve does most of the heavy lifting, Sam will admit it, but we can’t all be super-soldiers, dammit. Clint seems to take great delight in yelling “PIVOT!” down from the top of the stairs every time they reach the corner. 

Sam orders pizza and Clint chips in a six-pack as an impromptu “housewarming” dinner. It’s a bit crowded for the three of them on the couch, paper plates balanced on their knees, but it’s cozy. The dog wanders over and positions himself strategically in front of them, staring alternately at each of them with those puppy-dog eyes. Steve is the first to relent, offering a chunk of crust. The dog swallows it down in one gulp.

As soon as the pizza is gone, the dog hops to his feet and heads for the door, wagging his tail excitedly. 

“Aw Lucky, no,” Clint groans. “One walk in the morning, one in the evening, that’s the deal. Those stairs are a bitch. And not the kind you’d like.”

The dog lets out a whine and yawns as if he’s understood exactly what Clint has just said.

“Hey, I can take him,” Sam says, rising to his feet. “Don’t worry about it.”

Clint hesitates for a moment, as if he’s about to say he doesn’t need the help, but then he lets his head slump back against the couch. “Thanks man, that would be awesome.”

“I’ll come down with you,” Steve says, also getting to his feet. “I need to get the truck back, though, so I’m gonna head out.”

“Yeah, great. Thanks for the help, Steve.”

“See ya, Steve,” Clint calls from the couch. “Kick some Doombot ass for me.”

“Will do. Take care of yourself, Barton,” Steve says, clapping Clint lightly on the shoulder before he heads out.

“Door’s unlocked to my place, across the hall. Leash is on the hook next to the light switch. Don’t let Lucky keep you out too long.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sam agrees.

Steve waits for him to grab the leash and Lucky wags his tail excitedly when Sam clips it into place. Whatever hesitance the dog had about him earlier had disappeared right about the time Sam slipped him some pepperoni.

Steve reaches out a hand in goodbye and Sam gives him an _are you serious, right now_ look then yanks Steve into a firm hug.

“You get back safe,” Sam says. “Get us word when you can.”

“It could be a month,” Steve warns as Sam lets go. “But you’ll be the first to hear.”

Sam nods in acceptance, and Steve gives him one last smile before climbing in the truck and driving off.

Lucky tugs at the leash and Sam laughs.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry about that. Lead the way.”

Lucky may or may not understand but it doesn’t seem to make a difference. He’s a dog who clearly knows where he’s going. He seems almost methodical as he chooses where to sniff and where to mark, and this is clearly his usual route since several times people on the street acknowledge first Lucky, then with surprise, Sam.

It’s a nice walk, even if it’s late, and Sam enjoys himself right up until Lucky gives a sharp jerk at the leash. The pleasant, easy-going dog goes rigid and growls low in his throat, putting himself bodily between Sam and the two men approaching. Apart from the matching track suits, there’s nothing about them that’s too off-putting. And since each man is on their phone, they barely look at Sam as they pass.

It doesn’t matter. Sam trusts Lucky and his instincts.

“Thanks, boy,” Sam says, reaching down to give Lucky a few scratches behind the ear. “I’ll keep an eye out for them.”

The rest of the walk doesn’t take too long, and when Sam gets Lucky back upstairs, Clint’s door is open and Lucky drags Sam in that direction. Sam lets him off his leash and Lucky bolts to the couch to greet Clint like he hasn’t seen him in a year.

“I think he had a good time,” Sam says. “Anytime you need him walked and you aren’t up for it, I’m your guy.”

“You’re a life saver,” Clint says. His eyes are half closed and he’s reclining like he’s about half a minute from sleep.

“Do you need me to get you anything before I go?” Sam asks. “I promised Natasha I’d take good care of you.”

“She just doesn’t want anything to happen to me because if Tony didn’t have me to rag on, he’d turn back on her.” Clint says it affectionately enough that Sam get it’s a joke.

“I’m sorry, I’m still stuck on the part where Tony Stark is a real person that exists in my life now,” Sam says.

“Says Captain America’s BFF,” Clint laughs.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says. “I know. So damn weird. You good before I go?”

Clint groans in a way that sounds a lot like yes, and Sam hangs up Lucky’s leash before he heads out the door and pulls it closed behind him.

He wasn’t sure about this move when he’d left DC, but things are looking up.

***

Sam is up early the next morning and is about to head out for his run when he remembers about Lucky. Clint is probably not up yet, he thinks as he heads across the hall, but he figures being woken up beats having to navigate those stairs in crutches. He’s just about to knock when the door swings open and Lucky nudges his nose against his leg.

“Hey buddy,” Sam says to the dog. He reaches down to scratch his ears and peers into the apartment. “Where’s Clint?”

There’s a sleepy groan from somewhere in the apartment.

“I’m gonna take Lucky for a run, alright?”

Clint replies with a muffled laugh. “Knock yourself out, man.”

“I’ll try not to,” Sam says as he takes Lucky’s leash and then pulls the door closed behind him.

The dog has gone on ahead without him - he’s sitting at the bottom of the stairs by the door to the street, his tail wagging expectantly. Sam clips the leash on his collar and he hops to his feet, out the door as soon as it’s opened.

It’s been a long time since Sam has had a dog for a running partner and it takes them a bit to figure out their pace. At least he’s not an incessant sprinter like certain other running partners Sam has had.

That one at least doesn’t stop to mark every third tree, though.

When he gets back, he can smell the coffee before he opens the door. But any hope he has of Clint sharing disappears when he catches him drinking straight from the pot.

“Dude, were you raised in a barn?” Sam laughs.

Clint shrugs. “Circus, actually. But if it helps, I don’t think they appreciated my genius either.”

***

It’s two days later when Sam finally cracks.

“So, the circus, huh?”

“The circus,” Clint agrees with a soft laugh. “Go ahead-- everyone’s got questions.”

Sam laughs. “You got me, man. I’ve been thinking about it for two days straight. Is that where you got started with your bow?”

“You’re not going to ask me about the clowns?”

“I can ask about the clowns later, if it’s important. I’m just a lot more interested in the part where you go from circus kid to the best marksman in the world. Must have taken a lot of practice.”

“Uh, yeah. Years. But you know how it is, we can’t all just hop into a machine and come out looking like Adonis.” Clint flops onto the couch and picks up the remote, then starts flicking through the channels.

“You’re right on that one,” Sam says, accepting the silent invitation and settling next to Clint on the couch. Lucky follows suit, hopping up to nestle between them, his head resting on Sam’s thigh. “Just don’t, you know, ask Natasha to dig up my old training videos or anything. Cause there’ll go my street cred.”

“Oh, come on,” Clint complains, his face lighting up like it’s Christmas morning. “Those exist?”

“They exist,” Sam confirms. “Somewhere out there. I know ‘cause back in training we’d all go sit in the video room after hours, take some beer, and rag on each other’s best crashes. It was great.”

Sam smiles and for a second he forgets where these memories always lead. And then it’s there. Riley. And his smile settles into something a little more wistful.

“Anyway, let’s just say the wings take a little getting used to,” Sam says.

“Man, I bet that would be far more entertaining than this shit. What is this even?” Clint frowns at the TV.

It seems to be some sort of reality show about a couple in one of the fly-over states that opens a zoo in their backyard.

“I think watching Lucky catching flies would be more entertaining than this,” Sam agrees. Lucky perks up at the mention of his name, then puts his head down again when he realizes the next word out of Sam’s mouth isn’t ‘pizza’. “Sorry buddy,” Sam says, scratching behind the dog’s ear.

Clint switches the channel and lands on the Dog Whisperer. Lucky lets out a groan that can only be interpreted as disapproval. 

“I take it he’s not a fan?”

“Nope.” Clint shakes his head. “Not that I blame him. Knows a pretentious git when he sees one. That dog is the best judge of character I ever meant. Besides Tasha, of course.”

“Have you always had him? I mean since he was a puppy?”

“Nahhhh,” Clint says with a shrug. “Found him. Well, he found me. Shit, Cap would probably say something deep right about now about us finding each other. Whatever. He hangs around cuz he wants to, so I guess he likes me well enough. The dog, not Cap.”

Sam laughs. “Actually, that’s sounds almost exactly like how I met Cap.”

“Yeah, well Rogers is just a big goofy Golden Retriever. Course he only wags his tail for Stark,” he adds with a wink.

“Really, you think they’re…” Sam lets his voice trail off, but Clint shoots him a look that undeniably says “are you seriously even asking?”

“Not that either of them can get their heads out of their own asses long enough to figure it out.”

“Huh,” Sam muses, lifting his arm to accommodate Lucky, who’s decided it’s Sam’s lap or nothing. “Well good for them. Hope it works out. Someone around here should be getting laid.”

Clint raises a mock toast to the sentiment. “A-fucking-men.”

***

Clint is leaning back in his chair, a look of defeat on his face, when Sam comes in. There’s a stack of papers and an opened envelope on the table in front of him.

“You want a soda?” Sam asks as he opens the fridge.

“Yeah, sure,” Clint replies distractedly.

Sam sets a can down next to him and takes a seat on the couch. He taps the can twice, then pops open the tab and takes a long sip.

“You ever been in love, Sam?”

Okay, not the question Sam had been expecting.

“Yeah,” he replies, drawing out the word.

“How’d that turn out for you?” 

Sam sighs. “It fucking hurt like hell to lose it. But while I had it, it was the greatest feeling in the world.” He allows himself a few moments to replay the memories before pushing them back again.

“What happened?”

“He got his ass shot out of the sky,” Sam says neutrally. 

“Shit, sorry man, I didn’t mean to-” Clint starts, but Sam silences him with a wave of his hand. 

Okay, maybe coming out and mentioning the loss of his partner in one sentence was a bit much to throw at Clint, but he looks like he can handle it. “Don’t worry about it. It is what it is. How ‘bout you? What made you ask?”

Clint picks up the papers and frowns at them. “Yeah, I was in love. Head over heels, the whole shebang. But then it just kind of… fizzled.” He reaches for a pen, winces at the movement, then scribbles something on the paper. “And now I’m divorced, it would seem.”

“You wanna talk about it?” Sam offers.

“Not really.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “Not much to say. Haven’t actually seen her in a few years. Guess this was just the inevitable final step.”

“Sometimes something’s gotta end before something new can begin,” Sam says. “I know it sounds trite as hell, but you just never know what’s right around the corner. And that’s enough to get me out of bed in the morning. Well, that and coffee. Can’t do it without coffee.”

“Yes. Coffee. Lifeblood,” Clint agrees, staring at some spot in the distance.

“But right now I could use some dinner,” Sam puts forth to lighten the mood. “You?”

“Yes,” Clint agrees quickly, snapping out of whatever thoughts he’d just had. “You like tacos?”

“Uh, is there anyone who _doesn’t_ like tacos?”

“Yeah, Pepper, says they’re too messy.” Clint pushes himself up off the couch and hobbles over to where his crutches are leaning against the wall. “Come on, there’s a great place a few blocks over. They make some mean-good margaritas too.”

“You sure you’re up for it? I could go and bring it back.” Sam looks at him skeptically. He’s seen enough repressed pain in his day to recognize it, but he also knows when to let it slide.

“I gotta get out of the house. Need some fresh air. And they don’t do take-out margaritas.” He’s already halfway out the door, Lucky following close behind him as Sam snags the leash off the hook.

It takes a while to get down the stairs, but they manage it eventually with Sam supporting most of Clint’s weight. Gravity is on their side now, Sam reflects, but getting back up all those steps is gonna suck. Oh well, they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.

Clint takes a deep breath once they hit the sidewalk. “Ah, I love the smell of New York in the evening. It smells like… sewers. It smells like sewers.”

“Yep,” Sam nods. “I gotta say, I haven’t quite figured out what all the hype about this city is. But don’t tell Steve I said that,” he adds quickly. “Believe it or not I was born here. But we moved before I could crawl so I guess it didn’t stick.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Clint says. “You’ve just got to give it time. New York will grow on you. A little bit like a rash, but mostly like daisies or something.”

“I don’t know what the daisies are like where you come from, but where I grew up, they do not grow on people,” Sam laughs. 

“Iowa,” Clint says. “Waverly, Iowa.”

“Nice,” Sam says. “I can see it. All that farm-boy wholesomeness.”

Which makes Clint laugh. “Pure as the driven snow,” Clint agrees. “How about you? Where’d you grow up?”

“All over,” Sam says. “My mom--”

He’s cut off as Lucky lunges suddenly, all teeth and growl and vigilance. Three men in tracksuits have just rounded the corner ahead of them and Lucky puts himself between those men and Clint and Sam.

“Control your dog, Bro,” one of the men says. “Bad dog, Bro.”

“Be a shame if something happened to it, Bro,” one of his matching companions says.

Sam is not a fan.

“Why don’t you move along?” Sam asks. He’s not intimidated. If anything, hearing the man threaten Lucky has Sam riled up enough that it takes Clint’s hand on his arm to keep him from throwing a punch then and there.

The tracksuit bros give him a look but they must not like the odds because they take the hint and cross the street.

“What was that all about?” Sam asks.

Clint frowns and runs a hand through his hair. “Let’s call it neighborhood drama. I’m kind of, uh, occupying their building.”

Sam shoots him a questioning look, so Clint continues. “They tried to kick everyone out, so I tried to buy the place. It still needs a little sorting out.”

“So… you don’t actually own the place?”

“It’s complicated?” Clint replies.

“But they’re not the ones who did this to you, are they?” Sam gestures at Clint’s various injuries.

“Nah, this is just what happens when us mortals get in fights with Doombots.”

Sam lets out a huff. “I know how that goes.”

Clint smiles. “We can’t all be super-soldiers.”

“Hey, I saw the TV footage from the Battle for New York. You were pretty super, you know.”

“Yeah. Spent a few weeks in the hospital after, though. What you did to the Triskelion was pretty kickass too. Here we are,” Clint says, nodding towards the taqueria ahead of them. 

“It was all me,” Sam says, though his smirk makes his sarcasm obvious. “Came up with the plan, carried it all out by myself, definitely did not get grabbed and flung off a helicarrier like a one-winged pigeon. Just bad-assery from start to finish.”

“You know, that’s exactly how Nat described it. Word for word.”

***

Thursday, a week down the road, Sam drives back to DC because one of the vets he’d worked with was graduating a substance abuse program and there is no damn way Sam is missing that. He’d invited Clint but long car rides aren’t comfortable yet so Clint had to reluctantly turn him down.

Sam checks in with Clint when he gets home at around 9, but Clint is already asleep on his couch so Sam grabs Lucky’s leash, takes him for a jog, then gets him back before 10. Clint’s still out cold and Lucky trots right over to the couch, hops up and curls up against Clint’s legs, which Sam takes as his cue to call it a night.

It’s an hour later, and he’s just finished off a microwave burrito and an episode of Chopped when he hears the door across the hall slam open.

“Saaaaaaam?” Clint’s voice calls from the hall. “Don’t mean to interrupt your night, man, but we’ve got company and, well, help would be... helpful.”

Sam is so used to hearing Clint sound easygoing and casual that the alarm in his voice sends a jolt of adrenaline rushing through him.

“M’on’it,” Sam calls back. 

He keeps his gear in the closet next to the door like the total professional super hero he is (he had no idea where else to put it), and he shrugs on his wing pack and runs out into the hall without any indication of what they’re up against.

The roof access is blocked by one of the tracksuit bros. Guy’s about twice as big as any of the ones Sam has seen so far. 

“Shit,” he mumbles to himself and heads down the stairs. Good thing about wings is he can find his own way up to the roof.

He’s just made it outside when he hears a shriek and looks up. Not even enough time to process that there’s a body falling towards him, but enough time to get his wings up and catch the body in midair.

“Thanks man,” Clint mumbles as Sam swoops around and deposits him on the fire escape. “That woulda hurt like hell.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Sam says tersely. “Whose ass do I need to go kick?”

“Those futzing tracksuit bros. Hate them,” Clint grinds out. A nasty bruise is already starting to appear around his left eye.

“Alright. Let’s go get ‘em.”

***

“Eat shaft, suckas!” Clint is shouting as they swoop over the roof, firing arrows in rapid succession down at the bros below. They’re firing back, but it’s easy enough to evade. Sam tightens his hold on Clint and banks hard to the left. This is nothing compared to those helicarriers. 

***

“Dude, that was awesome,” Clint says, wincing as he lowers himself onto the couch. He prods carefully at his side, where a bullet had strafed him.

“Here, let me,” Sam says, coming around the side of the couch, first aid kit in hand. Clint acquiesces, lifting his shirt to allow Sam better access. He hisses as Sam presses the disinfectant swab against the wound - the gash isn’t too deep, luckily. A few stitches should do the trick.

“That was some pretty impressive archery, I gotta say.”

“Yeah it was,” Clint agrees with a broad grin. “But you got some sweet moves too.”

“Except for the part where you got hit.”

Clint catches Sam’s hand. “Hey man, shit happens.”

“I like it better when it doesn’t.”

“Well then, buddy, you’ve come to the wrong house,” Clint says with a wink.

Sam looks down and suddenly it sinks in that Clint is still holding his hand. He gives Clint’s hand a careful squeeze. “Eh, it does keep things interesting…”

“That I can provide. Plenty of interesting around here.”

Sam finally lets go of Clint’s hand so he can prepare the painkiller. He holds the needle up so Clint can see it. “I’m gonna have to give you this so I can stitch you up. Okay?”

Clint nods slowly. “Yeah, alright.” He lets his head slump back onto the couch.

Sam works quickly. It’s been a while since he’s had to patch someone up, but he’s done it often enough to be able to suture a wound with his eyes closed.

***

Clint is sprawled out on the couch when Sam comes in the next morning.

“Scooch over,” Sam says. He expects Clint to lift his feet to make room for him on the end of the couch, but instead Clint raises his head for Sam to slide under. Once he’s sitting, Clint settles his head on Sam’s lap. Sam’s not sure what to do with his hand, so he brings it to rest on Clint’s chest. “How you feeling, champ?”

Clint groans in reply. “Like a million bucks.”

“You look it,” Sam says with a laugh.

Clint flips him off.

Sam’s gaze sweeps over the walking (hobbling) disaster also known as Hawkeye. There are bandages on his nose, the back of his hand and his left ankle, plus the one on his side where Sam stitched him up. These aren’t injuries he got in the line of duty as an Avenger; these are injuries he got trying to help other people. “Clint Barton,” he finally says. 

“Sam Wilson,” Clint replies.

“Always trying to do right by others…” 

Clint nods. “Thanks.”

“You’re just kind of a trainwreck when you do it.”

“Gee thanks, Wilson.”

“No, it’s okay… Refreshing. Can be a bit overwhelming when you’re best buds with Steve ‘Freedom Isn’t Free’ Rogers.”

Sam smiles down at the blond head in his lap and cards his hands through Clint’s hair. Clint looks up at him, a crooked smile on his face. Sam’s seen that smile before, and it’s confusing. 

“You know, if I didn’t know better I’d think that look means you want me to kiss you.”

“Well you don’t know better, because I do.”

Sam hesitates before he replies. “I didn’t think you swing that way.” 

“Well clearly you don’t know a lot about me,” Clint says, “cuz if you did, you’d know that I take anything I can get wherever and whenever I can.” 

“Well, spend enough time in the military while Don’t Ask Don’t Tell was still around and you learn the importance of explicit consent.”

Clint shifts so he’s kneeling on the couch, his face just a few inches from Sam’s. “I consent. I absolutely consent. _Especially_ to anything explicit.”

Sam lets out a sigh. He wants to kiss him, he wants to so badly, but he doesn’t want to mess things up between them. “Clint, I’m not really the type for a quick bit of fun.”

“I can do a long bit of fun.” Clint slumps back and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, okay, I suck at relationships.”

Sam places a hand on Clint’s knee and Clint looks up at him again.

“I do try though. Heck, even my ex-wife will say I tried. Probably shouldn’t mention ex-wives when trying to make a case for myself. Ex-wife. Just the one. Shit, I am not making this any better.”

Sam leans forward and catches Clint’s lips in a kiss. Clint lets out a surprised gasp that morphs into a happy sigh and he’s kissing Sam back eagerly.

When they part, Sam smiles back at him. “Man, shut the hell up.”

“You’re gonna have to make me,” Clint counters and looks at Sam defiantly. Sam can’t seem to stop himself from leaning in for another kiss.

***

It’s another three weeks before Sam sees Steve again. Three weeks out of communication. Three weeks of whatever the hell it is he and Clint are doing, which has developed into something... well... a lot like love. Love-similar. Love-adjacent.

Sam sighs. He’s losing his damn mind. It’s too damn early for this.

When Steve walks in to the coffee shop, Sam hops to his feet and greets his friend with a tight hug, clapping him hard on the back.

“Good to have you back,” Sam says.

“It’s good to be back,” Steve confirms, then his smile turns into something mysterious and amused. “How’s New York treating you?”

“It’s grown on me,” Sam admits. He eyes Steve, trying to discern the meaning of Steve’s look. Steve doesn’t reply, he just keeps looking at Sam. Waiting. 

“Son of a bitch,” Sam says. “You know. How?”

“Natasha and Clint keep in touch,” Steve says. “They aren’t supposed to but I’m not going to be the one that stops them. I might understand a little more Russian than she thinks.”

“I’m gonna kill ‘im.”

Steve wags his eyebrows as he reaches over to nab a piece of Sam’s cookie and pops it in his mouth. “Somehow I doubt that,” he mumbles around a mouthful of cookie as Sam glares at him. With a wink he adds “I thought you two birdbrains might _flock_ together.”

***

Okay, so Sam doesn’t actually kill him that day. In fact, he forgets everything as soon as he sees that blond head poking out over the banister with a big old shit-eating grin on his face as he’s coming up the stairs.

“So, how was lunch with Steve?” Clint calls down, drawing out Steve’s name with a teasing tone.

“Jerk stole my cookie,” Sam replies. Once he reaches the top of the stairs, he wraps his arms around Clint’s waist and brushes a light kiss over his jaw.

“Think I got some Oreos if you want,” Clint murmurs.

“I’m good, thanks.” Sam pulls back far enough to catch Clint’s eye. “It was good to see Steve again, you know, after such a long period of _radio silence_.”

The bastard just grins and plants a peck on Sam’s cheek. “Yeah, I hate when they’re incommunicado for so long.”

“You tell her everything, don’t you?”

“We’re kinda a package deal. ‘Love me, love my work wife,’ that sorta thing.”

“Okay,” Sam says with a smile as he nuzzles into Clint’s neck. “I can live with that.”


End file.
